


Noodle Goes to Hell

by TortillaGuy



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Crack, Family Dynamics, Hell, Not Really Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-05-16 04:53:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19311010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TortillaGuy/pseuds/TortillaGuy
Summary: When Noodle dies, Russel, Murdoc, and 2-D travel down to the underworld to challenge Satan and get her back.





	1. Chapter 1

It was a sunny day on the beach. The sun bore down, unhindered by clouds, on 2-D’s glistening thighs. They were painfully visible as his forest green thot shorts covered not nearly enough of him. He was roller skating around on the sidewalks, harassing innocent beachgoers with his general sluttiness. His arms moved in time with the music from his product placement headphones. Even though he was disappointed with the results of his designer steroids (only his biceps were affected; the rest of him still looked like a newborn with osteoporosis) he chose to wear a wifebeater to conceal some of his chaotic thot energy. But, across the strip, Murdoc had long since embraced his unstoppable sex god energy and wore nothing but a pair of underwear that had never felt the forgiving embrace of a washing machine to cover his inhumanly large bulge. The children were crying, the adults were crying, the animals were crying, everyone was crying as he paraded down the strip. This would not and could not stop him. Not the hand of God himself could prevent Murdoc from causing bleach sales to spike. Meanwhile, Russel had dozed off on a bench under a shady palm tree. He was quickly racking up brownie points by being fully clothed and not forcing the public to look upon his sweaty thighs or possibly tumored genitalia. With a calm breeze and the distant white noise of conversation, he was getting better sleep on a crowded beach than he ever had back home, where spontaneous bedroom music numbers and the disorder of the paramedics as they try to prevent one of two people from overdosing was the norm. While these three were preoccupied with being either slutty or tired, precious twelve-year-old Noodle had wandered off, playing with a partially diffused claymore mine. She tinkered with it as she passed absently through Rape Gang alley, and entered the western hemisphere’s finest crack den. She traipsed out the back door, shaking a heroin needle from her ankle, and stumbled upon the Great Stack of Burning Tires. Her interest was caught, and a youthful grin filled her face as she set down her claymore to crawl through a melting tire. Of all three of the father figures she had, not a single one had so much as glanced around for her since they’d arrived at the beach. Once Noodle had finished up with the tires and had narrowly avoided third degree burns, something in the distance, near the beach, shone out like a beacon to her. Forgetting her explosive, she skipped over to it, hat and oversized shirt bouncing with each step. Meanwhile, a thought twinged in 2-D’s mind as he and Murdoc met at Russel’s bench.  
“Has anyone seen Noodle lately?” he asked, wringing his hands and looking around.  
“Noodle? Great idea, I’d love some pasta. Let’s just load up in the car--wait a minute, where’s that girl that’s around sometimes?” Murdoc asked.  
“What are you on right now?” Russel asked, waking up and, being semi-responsible and fully clothed, realizing Noodle hadn’t been around for quite a while.  
“Well, Oxy, for one--”  
“Noodle!” 2-D called out. He turned around, fear rising in his gut for a child who never deserved half the shit these people put her through. Russel stood up.  
“She’s gotta be around here somewhere. We’ll just have to--”  
He was cut off by the needy whine of an approaching helicopter. The three of them looked up. It was coming in close.  
Noodle sprinted across the beach, eyes joyfully locked on her target: a helicopter pad. She’d never seen one up close before, and was intent on climbing on it.  
“Forget about that damn helicopter. We gotta find Noodle so we go get some pasta,” Murdoc said, turning his head from the sky.  
“Yeah, alright, well I’ll start with the water. She probably went swimming,” Russel said, squinting at the coastline. 2-D’s eyes didn’t turn from the helicopter. He slowly looked down at the pad, where a hatted figure in oversized clothes was observing the lights on each corner.  
“Fuck,” he said.  
Noodle felt the breeze grow stronger. It whipped against her and was accompanied by a deafening whine. The wind pushed her off the pad, but she resisted, grabbing onto a light. The wind became a vortex, ripping her in and out in circles. Noodle was forced off the ground and into a tornado, blindly flung in every direction. The thunder became unbelievably louder and she struck the helicopter’s windshield just as it landed, and a sickening crack reverberated throughout the beach. Silence fell on the beachgoers who stared on with horrified, disbelieving expressions. 2-D, Russel, and Murdoc found themselves paralyzed, chests too tight to even gasp. The world gaped, in sickened anticipation for whatever would happen next.  
After a beat of silence, the helicopter’s windshield wipers brushed Noodle’s body off. It fell, but just as it would hit the ground, a black, swirling portal opened up for only an instant to transport Noodle into hell, and closed.  
Silence reigned again.  
“Wait, are we filming a video or something?” Murdoc asked.

TO BE CONTINUED?????


	2. Chapter 2

They slowly drove home in the Geep, set deep with a mourning that couldn’t even be aided by a body to throttle. 2-D stared aimlessly at the car floor, void eyes emptier than usual, thot thighs no longer glistening. Russel was in the backseat, pleading with no one in particular for little Noodle’s life. Murdoc was driving, eyes shared between the road and his bandmates. Finally, he huffed and swerved hard to the left, sending 2-D and Russel crashing into the car doors.  
“Oi, what was that for?” 2-D asked, rubbing his arm.  
“Yeah, what gives, man? Can’t you be sympathetic for five minutes?” Russel said.  
“No, I can’t, it’s a medical condition. Stop whining about Ravioli--”  
“It’s Noodle,” 2-D said.  
“--because we can get her back. I know how.”  
The car fell into silence. Russel and 2-D stared at Murdoc. For the absolute first time in his life, his eyes didn’t deviate from the road.  
“Well?” 2-D asked.  
“Huh?” Murdoc said.  
“C’mon, how do we get her back? You can’t just say something like that and then stop talking.” Russel said, slapping the back of his head.  
“What? Oh yeah, sorry, I was distracted by that billboard. Just what in the fuck is a super fast jellyfish? Anyway, you know I’m quite religiously devoted. To Satan, that is. He likes me well enough and I’m sure I could get an appointment with him. We could negotiate Linguini’s soul and get her back. If not, we’d have to go out and find a new violinist.”  
There was a pause.  
“Noodle plays guitar,” 2-D finally said.  
“Really?” Murdoc looked over at him. “Lemme tell you, I’ve been on a bender for a while now. It’s still November, right?”  
“Well, July, but just how are we gonna get an appointment with Satan? Is that even a thing you can do?” Russel said.  
“Just leave that all to me,” Murdoc said, pulling the car into the driveway. They came to a stop.  
“Should you have been driving?” 2-D asked, getting out.  
“Sure, the coke helps me focus. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta go get some stuff ready.” He went inside, swinging the keys on his finger. 2-D turned to Russel.  
“Now, I’ve never been very good at the whole ‘intuition’ thing, but I feel like I’m about to be killed.”  
“You probably are,” Russel said, pushing past him to go inside. 2-D stood a moment, then shrugged.  
“Well, if it’s for Noodle.”

~~~

In his Winnebago, Murdoc was digging through his favorite chest, the one with all the thongs and the illegal fireworks, but most importantly, his pride and joy: seven vials of pure arsenic. It hadn’t been easy to get, but finally, after months of begging, he had finally persuaded his regular dealer to step his game way the fuck up. Three were already empty: one for quality control, one for not childproofing the chest, and one for those annoying-ass raccoons. He took up the fourth vial and slipped it into his pocket, then stepped out of his sex-mobile, smirking. He made his way into the kitchen and dug through the cupboard, searching for 2-D’s favorite mug, his ‘World’s Best Singer’ mug, a gift from the pure child Noodle, that had been shattered by Murdoc three times. He picked up the mug, now a bunch of ceramic that had been carefully glued back together, and dumped the vial into it. He cursed as about a quarter of it leaked out, but managed to duct tape it well enough to dump a packet of hot chocolate mix and mostly fluid milk into it.   
“2-D!” he called. Upstairs, there was a thud, followed by a stumble, and then the crash of someone falling down the stairs. There was a groan, the sound of someone grabbing onto the banister for support, the sound of the stapled-together banister breaking, another groan, and momentarily 2-D appeared in the doorway.  
“Did you make that appointment with Satan yet?” he asked. Murdoc pulled out a chair for him.  
“Mmm, not yet, but you’ve had a stressful day. Why don’t you have a hot beverage?” 2-D sat down and accepted the drink.  
“Well, that’s very kind, Murdoc. It has been a stressful day. Say, this isn’t very hot at all. It’s cold, actually.”  
“The packet said hot chocolate. I don’t know what to tell you.” Murdoc paused, then smiled. “Just make yourself comfortable, 2-D. I’ll be right back. Also, be sure to drink it all. And I mean all. If it starts to mix with the glue and congeal, I don’t care. Keep drinking it.”  
Murdoc left the kitchen and headed back to his Bang Bus, where he rooted around for his sacrificial knife and candles. He was searching for his pentagram chalk when his phone went off. Cursing, he grabbed it. It was Russel.  
“What do you want? I’m busy.”  
“There’s--there’s something wrong with 2-D. I don’t know what it is. I… I just walked into the kitchen, and he was passed out… I couldn’t wake him up. Do you think he could have taken something? ‘Cause of Noodle? Man, I can’t lose two people today! What would he have taken? His painkillers, right? What’s the name of them? Oh jeez… oh fuck… this can’t be happening. Not again. Dude, where are you?”  
“Don’t even worry about it. It’s probably just his eczema or something.” Murdoc hung up and tossed the phone. He found his chalk and wrapped it with the other supplies in black silk. He ran upstairs, expecting a barely conscious 2-D hardly clinging to life, exactly what he needed, but found no one in the kitchen.  
“Fuck,” he said, and sprinted back down to his Winnebago. He grabbed his phone and dialed Russel’s number.  
“Where the hell have you two gone?”  
“We’re going to the hospital, Murdoc. He’s gonna die if--” Murdoc threw his phone to the ground. Hell was going to have to wait if Russel wouldn’t let him murder their friend.

TO BE CONTINUED?????


	3. Chapter 3

Murdoc burst through the ER doors, peering around for the front desk. He spotted it and ran over, mentioned 2-D’s name, and the receptionist in purple scrubs pointed him towards his bandmate’s room. Dashing to it, a doctor stopped him short and explained the situation. Although he already knew, he allowed the doctor to speak so he could at least act surprised so the hospital security footage would be in his favor should a murder trial arise. Finally, he entered 2-D’s room. The singer laid on the bed, turned over and clutching his stomach. Murdoc leaned in. His voice was soft; if 2-D was on the verge of death, he didn’t want to do anything to bring him closer to life.  
“2-D? You still in there?” he asked. The singer rolled over, void eyes scrunched.  
“I think I miscarried,” he said.  
“I--what? What the hell does that mean?”  
“It’s the meds. He’s pretty out of it,” Russel said. “The doctors said they found fucking arsenic in his system. Where the hell would he find arsenic?”   
“I love how you still have even the smallest sliver of faith in me,” Murdoc said, unwrapping his black silk bundle. Russel looked up warily.  
“What’s all that stuff?”  
“Well, you said you wanted an appointment with Satan. How do you think you get one?”  
“I was really hoping it’d be sort of a Craigslist arrangement,” Russel said.  
“Nope,” said Murdoc, drawing a pentagram on the wall. “Here, go light these candles and draw the curtains. Lock the door if it has one. If not, I brought this padlock.”  
“Whoa, you’re not seriously gonna murder him, are you?”  
“Yeah, and if you could not save his life this time, that’d be great. We could have been in hell hours ago if you had let go of your savior complex,” Murdoc said, polishing his knife.  
“Bringing your dying friend to the hospital is not a savior complex,” Russel said, crossing his arms. His expression softened. “Is this really the only way to get to Noodle? Killing 2-D? Couldn’t we use an animal or something? Does it have to be--”  
Russel was unable to finish his sentence because Murdoc had plunged his knife into 2-D’s heart. A swirling portal opened up beneath the singer, and Murdoc grabbed Russel’s arm.  
“Come on! It’ll shut almost instantly!”  
The three of them tumbled down through the vortex, falling through singed pockets of flames, chlorine gas, Hot Pockets that were charred on the outside but frozen on the inside, and coat hangers that were getting too chummy. Finally, they crashed into solid ground. The three groaned, clutching their heads. Murdoc surveyed the scene with squinted eyes.  
“That’s not good,” he mumbled. Russel shot up and glared at him.  
“What’s not good? The fact that you murdered 2-D? The fact that we’re literally in hell? The fact that a clothes hanger tried to take my anal vir—”  
“No! None of that... what’s not good is that we’ve gone too deep in hell. You see, Satan’s office is in a cozy high rise on the highest level, where he can pick fights with God easier. It looks like we’re on one of the lowest levels. The further down you go, the harder it is to get up. Not to mention the torture gets worse and the punishments more grotesque... I can’t imagine what’s waiting for us here.”  
2-D, still sitting on the ground, or, floor, he realized, looked around. He scratched his head. This level was eerily familiar to him, and maybe it was just because of the shock of Noodle dying, or the arsenic poisoning, or the stab wound through his heart, or descending through hell, but a hazy thought was congealing at the back of his mind.  
“Hey guys,” he said, “doesn’t this place look a lot like Kong?”  
“Don’t be stu—” Murdoc stopped himself short and looked around. “Wait a minute, this is Kong! The lowest level of hell is just our studio?”  
2-D stood up and brushed himself off.   
“I don’t know about you blokes, but I’m a bit offended.”  
“Guys, this is a good thing,” Russel said, “if this is Kong, then it’ll be easy to find our way out. All we’ve gotta do is get to the door.”  
“Fine,” said Murdoc, crossing his arms. “I swear, I thought Satan had more respect for me than this.”   
2-D was cut off from saying something unhelpful by a shrill cry.  
“What was that?” Russel asked, ducking behind a chair with three previously extinct species of mushroom growing on it.  
“I think it came from the broom closet,” 2-D said.  
“No, wait, we don’t have a broom closet! This must be some sort of trick!” Murdoc said, cowering behind Russel.  
“We do have a broom closet,” Russel said. “There’s cleaner and stuff in there too. It’s just that you’ve never touched any sort of chemical with the intention of cleaning anything.”  
“Oh, fair enough,” Murdoc said.  
Another shrill cry tore the mildew-clouded atmosphere.  
“We’ve gotta see what it is,” 2-D said, stepping forward.  
“Dude, no!” Russel reached his arm out, but Murdoc held it back.  
“Wait, we have to see how many times he can die in a day! We could get a world record!”  
2-D touched the knob gingerly. He looked as if he were about to turn it, but hesitated and changed his mind.  
“Hey, is someone in there?” he called.   
Silence.  
“Well, okay, if there’s no one, we’ll just--”  
The door flung itself open with a core-shaking scream. It resounded through Kong’s empty halls, tore through brick and metal and wood, it screamed as if it were aware that its life force was being ripped from it, fully sentient through the pain, never forgetting that is mortal and can die, and that it will probably do so very shortly, but is still able to disregard fatal injuries long enough to realize it doesn’t want to die and in fact has very much to live for. It was, in all, a life-altering scream for those who heard it.  
2-D scrambled behind Russel and collapsed, straining to work his fists into his ears, anything to block out of the sound. Russel stared, unable to move as his brain worked overtime to find any possible tragedy or terror to call for such a noise.  
Murdoc had dug through the cupboards, found 2-D’s mug, and was about to chuck it at the source of the scream when all became silent again.  
The three held their breaths, eyes apprehensively trained on the doorway. The cracked door creaked open, and a young man peered out with fearful eyes. Suddenly, his face relaxed and he stepped out.  
“Sorry, it’s just that I’ve been trapped in this hellhole for so long. I don’t know what I did to deserve this, and now there’s not even any others to talk to because they all decide they can’t take it anymore and commit more sins to get sent to a lower level. I would’ve joined them, but I try to scratch my eyes out every time I leave this closet. Anyway, what are you guys here for?” The man stared at them earnestly. Murdoc crossed his arms.  
“What do you mean, hellhole? We live here, you ass!”  
The man screamed again. Russel picked him up like a pillow and thrust him through the grimy window.

TO BE CONTINUED?????


End file.
